


The Whip and the Chair

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-19 04:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13115991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: Post TAB. Sherlock divines Molly's last, and most deeply hidden, secret. Will she allow him to help her with it?





	1. The Secret

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Smutfest2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Smutfest2017) collection. 



 

She ascends the stairs, one step at a time, her heart hammering in her chest.

What is she doing, why is she doing this? It's madness, utter madness. Despite Holmes' assurances to the contrary, she is terrified this will destroy her, not set her free. Destroy the hard-won life she's built for herself. Destroy the working relationship she has with the consulting pain-in-the-arse whose apartments she's about to enter.

Destroy her _self_.

But she ascends the stairs anyway, stroking anxiously at her false moustache, stopping on the first floor landing. Hesitating only a moment before squaring her shoulders and rapping on the door.

"Enter."

Holmes voice draws her forward, and enter she does.

**Two weeks prior**

"Would you care to join me for coffee, Holmes?"

The words burst from her lips before she can stop them; Holmes pauses in mid-strike, turning to stare at her over his shoulder, one eyebrow quirked in silent inquiry. "I…dammit, Holmes, you heard me," she says, knowing her voice to be far too defensive considering she is not only a woman disguised as a man, but that the man in front of her knows quite well the truth of her sex.

Ever since his discovery of her true identity that night in the desanctified church he has made it clear that it changes nothing regarding their working relationship. He continues to be an exasperating challenge and she continues to be as gruff and surly as ever to him, although there is a hint of camaraderie when they are alone in the morgue together, as they are now. John Watson has returned home to his wife, Phillip Anderson has presumably done the same to his – although it is equally possible he has instead decamped to the home of his mistress, as Holmes so snidely remarked upon his departure an hour earlier.

Things have, in other words, continued on much the same as they did before he discovered the part she'd played in perpetrating the Bride Deception. However that sameness has been preying upon her mind, nagging at the edges of her thoughts, teasing her with the potential for their relationship to be different; after all, there is no need to keep him at arm's length when he is already fully aware of her deepest, darkest secrets.

And now, she fears (hopes), he will discern her deepest, darkest _desires_. She feels a flush cover her cheeks as he continues to regard her, the riding crop he'd been using to thrash a corpse now tapping absently against his black-gloved hand. "I do enjoy coffee," he finally concedes. "However the idea of partaking in some street-side coffee shop, surrounded by crowds of people, holds no appeal to me. Join me tomorrow precisely at five." He rakes her figure appraisingly, and her flush deepens. "Come as Molly. My housekeeper will let you in, all you need do is identify yourself as a client and she will raise no eyebrows."

"I – very well," Molly finds herself agreeing. Her voice has crept up into its normal, feminine range, and she deliberately deepens it, desperate to regain control over some feature of herself. "I shall see you then."

"Until tomorrow," he says with a smile that sends a shiver down her spine. He deliberately strokes the riding crop along the palm of his hand; her eyes track its movements and she fights a second shiver, instead electing to turn and walk – not run – from the morgue, at as decorous a pace as she can manage. Although it is strictly against the hospital's rules for her to leave him here without proper supervision, she has no interest in spending another moment in his company.

Not when she is in danger of kissing him, male guise or no.

That, she resolves, is best left to a more private moment.

Although she is a bit dizzy with the idea of kissing Holmes, she is also perfectly aware that, despite the promise implicit in his invitation; despite the way he caressed his riding crop and carefully noted her reaction to his movements, she has no idea what to expect from this visit.

When she arrives, Holmes offers her no clues, mostly because he appears entirely unaware of her presence. "Oh he gets like this sometimes," his landlady clucks when she leads Molly up the stairs to her lodger's sitting room. "Goes off into that mind of his, until it seems nothing short of the crack of doom can wake him back up to the outside world. That," she adds as she gestures Molly toward the chair opposite his, "or the smell of a nice strong cup of tea with a plate of chocolate biscuits on the side." She pats Molly's arm. "I'll just go fetch a tray, my dear. Won't be a minute."

As soon as she bustles from the flat, Molly's attention is riveted on Holmes. The green leather chair in which he sits, fingers steepled beneath his chin, looks sinfully comfortable, with its sensuously curved arms and thick seat cushion. And yet there is nothing feminine about it, just as there is nothing feminine about the man currently occupying it: he is all hard planes and angles, lean and ascetic, positively scrumptious…

Molly bites her lip as she realizes the lascivious direction her thoughts have taken. She can feel a slight flush warming her cheeks and hopes it will fade before Holmes brings himself out of the reverie into which he's fallen. She's never seen him when lost inside his famous 'mind palace' and is curious to see how long it will take him to become aware of her presence.

She forces herself to take another sip of the tea the landlady brought her, making a face as she realizes it's gone cold. Oh, the infuriating man, making her wait like this! She has half a mind to leave, to return to her own flat and put aside 'Martin's sister Molly' and once again become her false self. She indulges in being 'Molly' so seldom these days, that it feels more like the disguise than when she's wearing the false moustache and wig, the padding and binding and slightly too-large shoes. Indeed, she feels almost anxious when she is being her true self, fretting over the loosening of the tight control she must maintain during so much of her life.

Her musings are cut short by the sound of Holmes finally shifting in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and piercing her with his gaze.

"Holmes, what is this about?" she asks. "You ask me here, then leave me to twiddle my thumbs whilst you contemplate the inside of your own mind – why?"

"Control," he says, and she blinks in confusion.

"You wish to…control me?" she hazards, feeling the tension increase throughout her body. She has spent most of her adult life avoiding the control of others, especially men, and cannot fathom why he believes she would allow anyone – even him – to take control of her in any manner.

He shakes his head. "No," he replies. "On the contrary; it is _you_ who wishes to give up control to _me_."

She can't help the laugh that escapes her lips at this extraordinary statement, and rises to her feet, determined to bring this confusing meeting to an end (never mind how deeply his words cleave into her secret heart). "I have no idea what you're playing at, Holmes," she begins, only to be interrupted by the sharp sound of a riding crop striking the arm of his chair.

"Sit down, Doctor Hooper," Holmes says sharply. She does as he bids – orders, actually – with a thump, staring wide-eyed at him.

He brings the riding crop up and glides the shaft across the palm of his left hand, much as he did yesterday in the morgue. Her eyes track its movements and she feels the flush warming her cheeks again. "You wish to surrender control to me," he says, speaking in low and intimate tones that send shivers up her spine. "Not while at work or in front of others, where you have to be 'Martin Hooper'. Not in the company of your female co-conspirators, who need 'Molly Hooper' to be strong and in command even now that your group activities are no longer lethal." His smile is cool, bordering on sardonic, but without judgement or condemnation. "But here…" He taps the riding crop on the arm of his chair, bringing her attention back to the present. "With me," he adds, bringing it up to rest lightly over his heart, "you wish to allow me to…dominate you. To take control and allow you, for once, to simply _be_."

Her heart is pounding in her chest and she feels a flush over her entire form as her breathing becomes shallow. How has he been able to discern so much from a single encounter in the morgue, from one simple request that he join her for a cup of coffee?

A single tap of the crop against the arm of his chair alerts her to the fact that he requires a response of some kind, so she nods, unable to speak, her throat tight and her hands shaking slightly. But not with anger or fear; no, she is trembling with a very different emotion: she is stunned, pleased – nay, thrilled – to discover that Holmes has come to know her so well. "H-how did you know?" she manages to ask, her voice hoarse. She sips at her cold tea, then sets the delicate china cup down on its saucer with a clatter.

He shrugs. "Observation. Deduction. Once I had the blinders of prejudice removed from my eyes, I saw far more than you ever meant to show me." A smile quirks the corners of his lips. "Unlike you, who has always seen me very clearly, I allowed myself only to see the image I was presented, and chose not to delve too deeply beneath the surface." His smile vanishes, the stern expression that replaces it sending another unseemly shiver down her spine. "In two weeks, I would like Martin Hooper to come here. John and Mary will be in Brighton, Mrs. Hudson visiting her sister in Leeds, and Lestrade will be under the impression that I'm on the Continent on a case. We will have two uninterrupted days together...if you are willing."

"And...after those two days?"

Sherlock pierces her with a look that quite steals her breath. "Whatever you wish. Our future is in your hands."

"What if what I wish is something more conventional?" she dares to ask, her heart once again beating nearly out of her chest at her audacity. "What if I wish marriage and children?"

He rises, reaches out, and pulls her lightly to her feet when she places her hand in his. He holds that hand curled against his chest, gazing down at her as he replies, "Why, then that is what we shall have. But I suspect that you will not wish to set 'Martin Hooper' aside permanently, not when you have worked so hard for that life, when you find your career so stimulating." He lowers his mouth, turns her hand palm up, and kisses the throbbing pulse in her bared wrist. "Rest assured, no matter what happens after those two days, after you place yourself completely and utterly in my control, I will remain your most faithful servant. Til death do us part."

He kisses her wrist again, allowing his lips to linger, and she gasps when he darts his tongue out and - tastes her, is the only way she can describe it once her ability to think properly is restored. "I shall see you here in two weeks, Doctor Hooper. Or not. It is your choice entirely."

Before she quite realizes how it happens, she finds herself on the landing outside Holmes' apartments, the door not quite fully closed between them. From inside she hears movement, and then the soft strains of a Chopin nocturne rising from a violin.

Two weeks. She has two weeks to consider this extraordinary offer, and all it entails.

Her mind in turmoil, she turns and descends the stairs.


	2. The Build-Up

**Two Weeks Later**

She pushes the door open, dressed as per Holmes’ instructions as her alter-ego ‘Martin Hooper.’ Holmes gives her an approving nod and gestures for her to close and lock the door behind her. She does so, then turns one of Martin’s more pugnacious looks on him. “Well?”

He’s casually dressed, wearing a mouse-colored dressing gown over trousers and a simple white shirt, a pair of Persian slippers on his feet. As she watches, he loosens the tie around his waist; her eyes widen at the sight of the riding crop thrust through the loop of his braces above one narrow hip. He pulls it out and holds it loosely in one hand; her eyes track its movements with reluctant fascination as he taps it against his leg.

He speaks, and her eyes fly up to meet his knowing gaze.

“Your presence here is consent to all that will follow. If you are not prepared to do exactly as I tell you for the next forty-eight hours, then I beg of you to take your leave at once.” There is a hint of unexpected vulnerability in his expression as he lowers his voice and adds, “I could not bear to begin this with you only to have you change your mind in the midst of things. Nor will I be able to return to a less intimate relationship with you if you do choose to remain. I wish to make that quite clear.”

Any hesitation Molly might have felt has melted away at the naked honesty of Holmes’ words. Still speaking in Martin’s gruff tones, but with none of the antagonism that normally colors their conversations in the morgue, she replies without hesitation. “I do not wish to fall back into old patterns, Holmes. I only wish to move forward. With you.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he gives her a relieved smile. “Well said, Hooper. So. Consent is given, freely and of your own will?”

She nods firmly. “It is.”

Holmes’ expression - indeed, his entire aspect - alters at that word. All signs of vulnerability vanish; his eyes become chips of crystalline sapphire ice, his lips thin and his posture becomes rigid. Authoritative.

Molly bites her lip. Lowers her eyes. Feels the heat of a blush on her face, the back of her neck, the column of her throat.

And she waits for his first command.

He approaches her, hands clasped behind his back. Circles her as she forces herself to remain still. Reaches out and fingers the fabric of her coat. “You have to remain in complete control every minute you are wearing these clothes,” he says quietly as he stops in front of her, hand still holding her cuff. “Every moment you wear this…” He strokes her wig. “And this…” He very, very softly brushes his fingers down the harsh bristles of her moustache.

Leaning close, so close his breath warms her ear, he murmurs, “Remove them. Now.”

With trembling fingers she reaches for the buttons of her coat. Undoes them, one by one. Shrugs it off her shoulders, folds it neatly, then glances around. “On the desk, if you please,” Sherlock says crisply. She moves obediently, finding a single clear spot amongst the chaos of papers and other clutter, and feels a thrill as she realizes that he’s deliberately made room for just this purpose.

She sits in the chair to remove her shoes and thick woolen stockings, rolling the itchy things into neat balls and slipping them into the toes of her shoes. When she starts to unbutton her waistcoat, however, she feels Sherlock’s hand on her shoulder. “Not yet,” he says, his voice a deep, commanding rumble. “First the hairpieces.”

She starts to protest that she neglected to bring the necessary equipment to peel away the spirit gum but falls silent when he reaches over her shoulder and points. Her cheeks heat and she smiles up at him as she sees that he’s provided exactly what she needs.

In that exact moment, she understands that she will not be stopping this. That she will not lose her nerve and bolt.

That he will, indeed, give her exactly what she most fervently desires.

She sets to work, peeling away the remainder of her disguise.

**oOo**

He watches her through hooded eyes, knowing the face he presents is one of cool detachment. She cannot hear the way his heart pounds in his chest.

She cannot possibly know his own deepest, darkest secret.

No, it’s not that he has turned on far too many occasions to drugs to calm the racing of his mind; that knowledge is one the reasons ‘Hooper’ has always held him in such contempt. That, and the need for her to keep her true identity from his prying eyes.

That need no longer exists. He finally sees her as clearly as she has always seen him.

And tonight, and over the next two days, there will at last be nothing left between them but raw honesty. Full disclosure on every level - physical, intellectual, spiritual.

He has never believed in a higher power, has always scoffed at the concept of the soul, but as he watches Molly unpin her hair and allow it to fall past her shoulders, her face bare of the hateful false whiskers that covered her sweetly kissable upper lip...he acknowledges that his beliefs might have been as much a disguise as the bindings that she uses to disguise her womanly figure.

And now, wholly unnecessary.

“Brush out your hair,” he orders her, managing to keep his voice even in spite of the emotions spilling through him in this glorious moment. She obediently takes up the silver-backed brush he’s provided and with every stroke he feels his desire for her building.

Soon he will be allowed to take her in his arms, to hold her close to his fast-beating heart, to kiss every inch of her...but not yet. The last vestiges of ‘Hooper’ must be removed before anything else can happen.

His smile turns dark. And the riding crop, of course, must be employed. Molly must be punished for her actions as a decoy bride on the night of Lord Carstairs’ death.

He knows she knows that...and he knows that she is as eager for him to administer that punishment as he is to provide it.

**oOo**

Barefoot, hair unbound, she undoes her waistcoat, still facing away from him. He commands her to turn and face him as she clutches the silky fabric in her hands. She lowers her eyes and turns. She folds the waistcoat and places it neatly on the chair, then reaches for the buttons of her shirt. 

The riding crop comes down smartly across her knuckles, and she gasps in mingled shock and pleasure at the sensation. Her eyes fly up to meet his as she waits to hear what she’s done wrong.

“Cuffs first,” he says sharply as she meets his gaze. His eyes are cold, but instead of chilling her the sight heats her from the toes up. She obediently takes up first one sleeve and then the other, depositing the cheap enamel cufflinks into his waiting hand. He places them carefully into the pocket of his dressing-gown, but the riding crop twitches in his other hand and she is given to understand that his patience will not be tested again.

She sets to work at removing her shirt, the stinging of her knuckles seeming to throb within her sex. She fumbles the buttons only slightly as her excitement continues to build. Once she has removed the garment and folded it neatly atop her waistcoat, she reaches for the ties of her bindings, then hesitates, teeth nipping at her lower lip as she considers her trousers. She moves her fingers instead to the button at her waist, and is rewarded by a soft hum of approval from Sherlock. Blushing hard, she removes her trousers, leaving her clad only in her smalls and the strips of white cloth binding her breasts.

Instinct tells her to wait, and she is rewarded by the feel of Sherlock’s fingers on her face, sliding to her chin in a caressing motion. “Now your bindings,” he says, his voice hoarse, a flicker of something - warmth? Need? Eagerness? - in his blue-green eyes.

Keeping their gazes locked, she carefully undoes the knot. Winds the fabric in a practiced motion until her torso is bare. Watches with bated breath as his gaze flicks downward, his hand still on her chin.

His eyes droop and his lips curve in an approving smile as she allows herself to breathe. “Lovely,” he says, his voice barely audible. He tilts her face up and his smile deepens. “Perfect.”

His lowers his head and her heart seems to stutter in its rhythm as she realizes he is about to kiss her.


	3. The Climax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the story concludes. Thank you everyone for your encouragement, comments and enthusiasm.

His mouth is a brand, burning her lips, a sweet fire she never ever wants to quench. He steals her breath, invades her mouth with his tongue, holds her so tightly it seems he’s trying to merge their bodies into one, ecstatic being.

It is in that very moment that she surrenders control to him, completely and unreservedly.

Her hands have stolen up his body, come to rest in the dark masses of his hair. He takes her wrists and pulls her arms down to her sides, no sign of the tempestuousness of his gaze in those hard, deliberate motions. He steps back, then again, until they are standing directly in front of the leather armchair in which he was sitting during her first visit to his flat. “Now my clothes,” he commands, his voice husky.

Molly nods, reaches for the lapels of his dressing-gown, slides the sumptuous fabric from his shoulders. Allows it to slide down his arms, to land in a camel-colored puddle around his feet. Hesitates not at all as she drops to her knees and reaches for each of his slipper-clad feet in turn and bares them. She sets the well-worn slippers to one side and stands back up, trailing her hands upward as she goes. She is not unaware of the slight - make that _noticeable_ \- tenting in the front of his trousers and, greatly daring, allows her fingers to ghost over that spot on their way to the fastenings at his waist.

He is still holding the riding crop in one hand, and she sees no reason for him to drop it even when she unfastens his cuffs and places the gold links carefully onto the low table next to Sherlock’s empty coffee cup.

It is no shock to her when she sees that he is wearing nothing beneath his clothing - no longjohns, no drawers, not even smalls wrapped around his loins. His chest is covered in sparse, gingery hair; she allows her fingers to brush across hair and nipples with a rich, sensual appreciation. People often swoon over visual beauty, go into paroxysms of joy over the taste or scent of food and colognes and perfumes and wines, but she - she has always been a creature attracted to the _feel_ of things.

And Sherlock Holmes feels very, very good to her.

“You’re not a virgin,” he says as he takes her wrist and gently pulls her hand away before she can explore the thicker, coarser hairs from which his manhood so proudly juts. “This is not a criticism,” he adds - quite unnecessarily, as she had not taken it as such. “Simply an observation.”

“Nor are you,” she points out as he releases her, only to trail his fingers along the white cotton still modestly covering her sex.

He dips his head in acknowledgement of the truth of her words; when he speaks again, he is back in control, all traces of softness or distraction vanquished. “Remove your smalls. Fold my clothing in a neat pile and place yourself on your knees, facing away from my chair.”

Her breathing shortens as he caresses her mid-section with the riding crop. Once she has obeyed his commands and knelt with her back to him, she waits. And waits. Eyes forward, not daring to look up to see why he is delaying things. To make her shiver with anticipation? To see if she will grow impatient, rise to her feet, demand explanations?

No. She closes her eyes, steadying her breaths, focusing on the moment and nothing else. Once this happens she hears a whisper of some soft fabric, feels it laid across her eyes, and smiles in the realization that she’s done the right thing. Sherlock says nothing as he carefully pulls her hair to the side and knots the blindfold. With one hand he presses on her neck and she moves into a supine position, cheeks pink at the thought of her backside being presented to him while her head is pillowed on her folded arms. _Oh yes, please,_ she thinks as he caresses her backside with those big, elegant hands of his.

“You’ve done terrible things for good reasons,” he says, and she feels one hand replaced by the slide of the riding crop, over the rounded curves of her buttocks and between the cleft that separates the two halves.

“Yes,” she manages to whisper when he seems to pause for an answer. She has. Terrible, terrible things. Lies. Deceptions. Fraud.

Accessory to murder, if not murder itself. She had never taken that ultimate step but oh, she had been more than willing to assist her sister-Brides, even to the point of abandoning her principles, the morals and ethics her parents and medical education had instilled in her.

 _First, do no harm._ She had broken that oath more than once.

Now was the time for her reckoning, directly at Sherlock’s hands as he declined to allow her to surrender herself to the law and face the legal system that they both acknowledged would be prejudiced strongly against her - as much for her masquerade as a man as for her antics as a decoy Bride.

“You need to let the guilt go,” he murmurs, his breath warm against her ear. She shivers a little as he presses a line of kisses from that tender spot down the back of her neck. To her shoulders. The line of her vertebrae. Her hips.

The creases of her arse, and the shivering sex below, seat of her womanhood.

“But we both know that you won’t be able to do so until you’ve been punished. And so...shall we begin?”

She lets out a sharp cry of mingled pain and pleasure when the riding crop descends, criss-crossing her flesh again and again until tears are leaking from beneath the silken blindfold.  When he’s finished marking her flesh, fingers sliding between her trembling legs and into the dripping wetness of her sex, she shudders and gasps as her body reacts with unrestrained pleasure. She knows her own anatomy, and despite what (male) skeptical medical professionals have said, it’s been very clear to her for years that the female body is made for pleasure just as much as is the male.

Sherlock shows his own experience with that truth by unerringly finding the small bundle of nerves hidden in her folds, stroking the flesh to quivering attention, and bringing her quickly to her crisis - and over the falls into utter bliss.

Sherlock drops the crop, unties the blindfold, and drapes himself around her body, holding her arms tightly crossed to her chest until the shuddering stops. Sweat covers her from head to toe, and the feel of his lips on her neck, the security of knowing how utterly safe she is in his arms, brings about a series of pleasurable aftershocks that seem to stretch on into eternity.

A languid heat steals up her form as she feels the hot length of his shaft nestled against the cleft of her bottom, and the momentary lassitude of complete and utter release of the tension that has filled her for so long passes. His hold on her wrists tightens, and she lets out a small squeak as he jerks her upright, still holding her from behind. “And now, Miss Hooper, the time for indirect stimulation is over.” When she risks an uncertain look over her shoulder, he bares his teeth in a fierce smile. “My cock requires your immediate and undivided attention.”

She’d thought herself fully sated, but his words act like a lightning bolt, searing the opening between her legs, jolting its way up her spine and verily electrifying the ends of her hair. Her lips part in a soundless ‘O’ of understanding, even as her body flushes with warmth. Such a common, filthy word for him to use, so at odds with his usual dignified, aloof bearing.

She adores it.

He pulls her roughly to her feet, takes two steps back and seats himself on the leather armchair. Pulls her to him so that she lands with her knees on either side of his thighs, squeezed tightly between his heated flesh and the arms of the chair. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders, her breasts directly in front of his face, and she cries out thinly when he darts his head forward and clamps his lips - those beautiful, plush lips - around her right nipple.

He sucks hard, his hands wrapping around her waist as he pulls her more snugly onto his lap.

They both give voice to their pleasure as their centres meet, his cock nestled against her quinny.

No, if she’s to allow herself use of the masculine vulgarity, then she can dare to use a less dainty euphemism.

Her cunt. Her cunt is wet and hot and aching to be filled. She lifts herself up, but is punished - or rewarded - for her impatience by the slap of hand against the back of her thighs. “We will do this slowly, Hooper,” Sherlock says. Deliberately using her surname to demonstrate his new - and exclusive - ownership of _all_ parts of her.

She nods to show her understanding, and sighs with delight as he once again brings his mouth to her breasts. “You have exquisite bubbies. A shame to keep them hidden away beneath either men’s attire or women’s.” He looks up at her sternly. “They are to remain free from any restraint other than our shared bed covers while you are here for these next two days. Do I make myself clear?”

She swallows and nods, far too aroused for words. Her two previous lovers were more underwhelmed by her figure than anything else. Sherlock, she knows, would never lie to her about such things and such certainty is as arousing as the feel of his hands as they slide around her torso and cup the objects in question between them. He squeezes, lightly at first, then harder, then harder still as she digs her nails into his shoulders, throws back her head and moans wantonly.

It is more than sudden shyness that causes her to silence her voice, to take her lower lip between her teeth. She has no desire to be gagged, although the blindfold was incredibly erotic. Does he prefer silence, as certain other gentlemen of her early acquaintance did?

“Do not stifle your cries,” he instructs her as he pinches her nipples between his fingers. “Be as loud or as quiet as you wish, but have no fears of being overheard - or,” he adds shrewdly, “of putting me off by giving voice to your pleasure. I will be equally happy with either your silence or your screams as long as they are genuine. You have my word.”

He covers her smile with his mouth, releasing her breasts in order to cradle her face between the palms of his hands. She sighs and shudders as his tongue slides between her lips, holding him closer to her body, gasping with pleasure as he nips her lower lip between his teeth. And when finally he brings his hands to her hips and guides her onto his shaft, she cries out loud, calling his name with every exquisite inch that fills her. “Sherlock, Sherlock, oh my darling, _Sherlock…_!”

She’s given a moment to become used to the feel of him inside her, then his arms encircle her waist again, his mouth lands on her throat and with an upward thrust of his hips he sets the pace of their lovemaking.

And oh, what a furious pace it is! She throws her head back and laughs at the sheer delight of the moment - so freeing, both emotionally and physically. When she looks back down at Sherlock - such a novel position to be in! - she’s relieved to see that he’s smiling.

He understands.

Impulsively she leans down and kisses him, curling her hands around the back of his neck even as they continue to rock against one another’s sweat-slicked bodies. The delicious ache of his cock between her legs, grinding deep inside her against a spot that makes  her see stars, is building, building, and she knows she’s on the cusp of a second orgasm. “Take me with you,” Sherlock breathes against her lips, a command she’s more than willing to obey.

His arms are locked around her waist, his body straining, a series of sharp huffs escaping his lips as his eyes flutter closed. She leans her head against his shoulder, hands clutching his biceps; she twists her hips slightly and there, there it is! Oh dear GOD she never knew it could be this way, could feel so good, as if this man was made only to bring her wave after wave of purest pleasure.

His gasps and groans fall like the sweetest music against her ears, and she feels his cock pulsing as he reaches his own climax. They’ve fallen over the cliff at the same time, and made it safely to the ground below.

Afterwards, when Sherlock has settled them both in his enormous cast-iron tub in order to clean themselves and soak away their happily-got aches, Molly turns her face up to his. He looks down at her with an inquisitively-arched eyebrow. “You have something to say, Molly?”

“Thank you.” There is more she wishes to say, but those two simple words are all she can manage at the moment.

“No,” he says with a quick shake of his head as he raises her soaking wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to her pulse point. “Thank _you_ , Molly Hooper. For now and for the rest of our lives together.”

When he puts it that way, she finds it impossible to argue.

Leaning back with a sigh, her back to his chest, she simply folds his arms around her and basks in the warmth of his embrace.

Now, and for the rest of their lives together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my pinterest board for this fic!  
> https://www.pinterest.com/mizjoely/sherlolly-fics/the-whip-and-the-chair/


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